


Musa Procax

by JackOfNone



Category: Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF
Genre: Ancient Rome, First Kiss, Literary Reference, M/M, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-02
Updated: 2009-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-04 02:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackOfNone/pseuds/JackOfNone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Muses are fickle, a great commission is taken, and several arguments are started but not finished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Musa Procax

It wasn't Virgil's best work -- merely a practice poem to pass the time, something that Vergil worked on whenever he had nothing better to do. But Horace felt very strongly for it. After all, he had saved it from the fireplace. That little paean to Saturn had been the beginning of the entire matter.

The incident with the paean to Saturn had occurred, as most incidents of note seemed to these days, at one of Maecenas's villas. Horace couldn't remember which one it was -- the man seemed to have a veritable collection of them, and it was difficult to keep track of which was which. At any rate, it had been rustica rather than urbana. Vergil always found country estates more agreeable to his temperament and tended to be in a better mood when he had picturesque woods and fields to meander through at his leisure. If he was left in Rome for too long he began to act like a cat locked in a cage; Maecenas, ever the gracious host, was careful to remove Vergil to calmer surroundings before he grew too melancholy. Horace was usually included in these invitations -- as usual, Maecenas showed uncanny insight that was only apparent in retrospect.

It was about a year after Horace had first run into Vergil in a bathhouse library. They had become almost immediate friends, though Horace for the life of him couldn't figure out what Vergil liked about his company. Horace, for his part, found Vergil a very welcome respite from the hectic pace of Rome's social circle and the tumultuous politics that continued to disrupt Horace's existence despite his efforts to avoid it. Vergil was perfectly content to spend an afternoon in some secluded garden doing nothing but writing verse and listening to Horace talk. He never said much in response -- Virgil's halting tongue had made him a man of few words -- but he gave the impression that he was always listening. And besides, he was an excellent critic. His ear for meter was flawless and his suggested revisions were often so apt that Horace was left wondering how he had ever managed to imagine the line in any other way.

Very quickly, Horace began seeking out Virgil's company with a regularity that surprised him. Even more surprising were the times he found himself missing Vergil -- in the Forum, he started whenever he heard someone speaking in the lilting accent of Virgil's home province, and caught himself imagining Virgil's responses to questions he happened to ask. Eventually, Vergil had introduced Horace to Maecenas, and he had gladly left the society of clerks for the society of poets. He'd hardly looked back.

By the time Maecenas had invited Vergil down to his villa rustica, Horace had gotten rather used to the life of a court poet. Maecenas had said something about having to talk to Vergil, and in his usual mode had decided that this discussion had to happen in a palatial country villa over a dish of honeyed figs imported from Africa. Horace had not strictly been part of the original invitation, but Vergil had taken the liberty of asking him and Maecenas had not objected.

The excursion was notable because Virgil's mood was not at all improved by the change in setting. He stalked around the atrium with a wax tablet in one hand, doing more staring into the distance than actual writing. Something was on his mind, certainly, and it was making him melancholy. Horace -- who hated to see anyone melancholy, much less a friend -- had tried to cheer him up, with little success. It was worrisome.

Vergil had been working on the hymn all the two days at the villa when he and Horace sat down with a jug of wine in one of the three identical drawing rooms to play verse games. Vergil was distracted; he only half-looked at what he was writing and often only noticed Horace was talking to him halfway through the intended conversation. They exchanged poems, read them, and as soon as Vergil received his wax tablet back he announced "I'm going to burn it."

Horace recognized this; Vergil had a regrettable tendency to take it out on his poetry when something was bothering him. "I rather liked it. Not your best, of course, but --"

"It's embarrassing. I should get rid of it." He stood up and gathered his writing tools fitfully. Horace stood up as well and grabbed Vergil by the wrist to stop his hasty exit from the room.

"You don't write anything embarrassing," he said, and meant it. Vergil, however, was having none of it.

"You shouldn't s-say such things," he said. There were traces of a stutter around Virgil's words, something that tended to resurface when he was agitated. Horace frowned.

"What would you have me say, then?" Horace replied. Vergil simply shook his head and tried to walk out of the room, but Horace kept his grip and he was pulled back.

Horace stared up at Vergil for a moment, waiting for him to say something. When this didn't appear to be happening, he rolled his eyes, said "Have it your way. You, Publius Vergilius Maro, are the worst bard who ever breathed," and in a flash of inspiration that must have come from a capricious god, kissed Vergil.

Where the impulse came from, Horace wasn't entirely sure. The wine was certainly a factor. However, it very quickly occurred to Horace that the wine had merely brought to the forefront an idea that had been brewing in the back of his head for some time now, beneath his notice. At any rate, Vergil had frozen like a startled hare; it was mere seconds before Horace began to get the impression that he'd made some kind of awful mistake. He pulled away, and was halfway though a flustered apology when he realized Vergil hadn't actually let go of his hand. He looked down at Horace with an expression of concentration, as if trying to think of something to say, but as usual his words didn't seem to be up to the task. So he settled the matter by throwing his arms around Horace's waist and leaning down to kiss him rather more passionately than Horace had really been expecting. Horace stumbled backwards in surprise, found a wall at his back, and steadied himself on it.

It might have been moments, maybe minutes they stayed like that, heedless of arguments or poems or the bustling of household slaves just outside the door -- Horace was lost in Vergil's awkward kisses and halting caresses, half-remembered from some dalliance in his rustic youth. Trysting with his best friend, with Vergil who tripped on stairs and hid from crowds and looked as though he'd been built out of sticks...Horace could have laughed, if he wasn't, well, engaged in other pursuits. Much sooner than Horace would have liked, Vergil let go, fixed a lock of his dark hair, and reminded Horace haltingly that they were expected at dinner at the seventh watch, the bell for which was currently ringing. Horace swore, ducked out of Virgil's arms, and darted for the door. At the threshold he paused and turned. "Toga," he explained, nodding at his current state of dress. "Left it in my room." He laughed, and Vergil smiled -- the first time he had seen him smile all week.

Dinner passed uneventfully. Much to Horace's irritation, Maecenas monopolized Virgil's attention after dinner, conferring with him over what appeared to be a matter of some import; they vanished into one of the drawing rooms and Horace fell asleep on one of the couches while waiting for the interview to conclude. He was eventually awakened by a tentative slave boy who thought that master's guests should probably not pass their nights in the hall. Horace asked the boy if he had seen any sign of Vergil. The boy answered that he had not, and Horace stumbled off to his room feeling rather irritated at Maecenas. Something political was intruding into his life again. No matter how long he remained an imperial poet, Horace would never get used to that.

The next morning Horace found Vergil reading Homer in the garden, under a fountain of a piping faun that Horace found somewhat tasteless. He was sitting on the ground -- some odd remnant of his rural upbringing occasionally prompted him to eschew furniture when outside. Horace peered over Virgil's shoulder for a moment before he realized that he was too lost in his book to notice him.

"Homer?" Horace asked, eventually. Vergil started a little, then rolled up his scroll and stood.

"I was waiting for you to wake up. I'm going back to Rome," he said, looking apologetic.

"When?" Horace asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

"Immediately. As soon as Maecenas returns, in fact. Summons from the princeps." Horace silently added the great Augustus to his mental list of people with whom he was currently annoyed.

"What's the matter? What's so urgent that you need to be called back to Rome right now?"

"A commission," Vergil said, but rather gloomily.

"You're being paid to write? What's wrong?"

"Not paid, exactly. More requested." Vergil shifted uncomfortably and coughed.

"Requested to write what?" Horace said, frowning. Several months earlier, he'd engaged in a long series of letter correspondences with the princeps which had mainly revolved around a proposal that Horace write an epic for him. Horace found the idea distasteful on several counts, and entirely unsuited to his temperament. He had told Augustus so, and that had been the end of the matter.

"An epic," Vergil replied, confirming Horace's suspicions. "Augustus's epic. I've been weighing whether to take the project, and...I've decided I should."

"What's wrong, then?" Horace pressed, but Vergil merely shook his head.

"It's nothing," Vergil said, staring hard at the ground. Horace took hold of Virgil's chin and turned his head to face him.

"Honest now," he said gently. Vergil looked at him for a long moment, wavering.

Vergil seemed to have just decided to stop the argument with a kiss when footsteps echoed across the stone floor somewhere just outside the garden. Vergil sprang back guiltily with such suddenness that he was overwhelmed by a fit of coughing.

The footsteps belonged to Maecenas, returning from whatever errand had called him away from the villa. He found Vergil nearly doubled over with coughing and Horace looking on with helpless sympathy. Maecenas collared a passing servant and sent him for wine.

"Ah...Horace. Excellent. I tried to find you earlier but Demophon told me you were still asleep. A summons arrived just this morning...I'm needed in Rome immediately, and I'd like Vergil to come with me. You're welcome to stay here until I return." Maecenas gestured expansively at his garden, and the slave standing behind him bowed. "It'll be a few days, but I don't mind."

Horace looked at Maecenas, still talking, then back at Vergil, who caught his gaze and shrugged helplessly. "No," he said. "I think I'll be going back to Rome."

"Awfully sorry about last night, by the way. Couldn't be helped, really," Maecenas said. Horace blinked at him. Extraordinary insight, indeed.

Like a shadow at noon, Vergil vanished for days as soon as they arrived in the city. After a day and a half with not a single word from Vergil, Horace came to the conclusion that he was being somehow rejected. By noon of the third day he found himself merely longing for the sight of him and decided to pay him an unannounced visit.

Virgil's doorman turned him away unadmitted, saying first that his master was simply "indisposed" and, when pressed, adding "he said he was â€˜researching" and wanted to be left alone for a little while to put things in order. "But he said you would come by, and told me to give you this if you did." The slave handed Horace a small parchment scroll. Unrolling it, Horace found the finished version of the paean to Saturn, written out in Virgil's scrupulously exact hand.

Another day passed with not a word from Vergil. Horace had some business in the Forum that occupied his attention for the morning, but by midday he was restlessly thinking of Vergil again. Of course, Virgil's behavior was not uncommon -- when he was hit with an inspiration, he more often than not would shut himself up in his house and refuse to come out for days, in order to record the idea before it escaped him. The Muse had merely chosen a monumentally inconvenient time to visit him. Vergil, living in his world of books as he did, would have no idea that he was acting standoffish; it was either wait until Vergil had exhausted himself and called on him (and there was no telling how long that would be, or how badly he would decide to wreck his health in pursuit of his Muse), or pay a call on him now. Horace decided on the latter. There was still the slave at the door to be reckoned with, of course -- but Horace considered himself something of an expert in the subtle art of bypassing tenacious door wardens. He'd had a lot of practice, after all.

There were several methods for getting past a slave ordered to guard a door. Bribery was the most common tactic, but if the slave was unusually devoted or afraid of his master's wrath, different approaches were required. Vergil was uncommonly kind to his slaves, and his doorman was likely to be a to be the former sort of unbribable servant. A little more finesse would be needed.

"Look here," he said, leaning against the door frame with a sigh. "Either you let me in now, or I'll come back tomorrow and the next day and be nothing but a hassle to you. You know how such things are. I might even decide to set up camp right here on the doorstep. I'll sit here day and night and cause a great deal of comment. It will be frightfully embarrassing, not to mention annoying." The slave looked uncomfortable, and repeated his orders not to let anyone in. Horace grinned. "How does this sound? You go and tell MasterParthenias exactly what I just told you and see what he says." The slave, obviously glad to be given a reason to stop arguing, nodded and trotted off. Just as Horace had expected, the slave came back sheepishly and showed him in.

Horace found Vergil holed up in his study, hunched over a wax tablet and scrawling notes into it. Despite the fact that his presence had been announced, Vergil was far too absorbed in his work to notice him enter.

"What are you working on that's so important?" Horace said. Vergil started violently, dropping his writing implements and knocking over a pile of scrolls. He began Horace's name, but the sudden shock pinned him in the first syllable: "Qui-Qui-Qui-Qui--"

"I thought your slave told you who," Horace said, unable to resist the pun, as he bent down to gather Virgil's fallen tools. Vergil rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"D-don't worry," Vergil said, taking the tablet and stylus from Horace and setting them aside. He was sitting on the floor, so that he could have every scroll he needed within arm's reach; he made a movement as though to stand up, but then thought better of it. Poor thing looks on the verge of falling asleep, Horace thought, wincing in sympathy.

"Good job on the doorman, by the way. You ought to have called that fellow Argus. If you'd been a pretty young girl, I doubt very much if I'd ever have gotten past him."

"Clemens is very reliable. I'm sorry I barred the door, awfully sorry -- I was...agitated. I felt if I didn't start immediately, the impulse would slip away..." he coughed a little, and smiled ruefully, "...but of course you show up, and I realized that if I didn't see someone, preferably you, I was going to go mad."

"Well, I'm glad you came to your senses, then." Vergil made to stand up, but Horace motioned for him to stay and stepped gingerly over his scrolls to sit beside him. "By the way, it's generally considered bad form," he said, slipping his arms around Virgil's shoulders, "to kiss someone and then vanish from the realm of mortals directly afterwards."

"I'm sorry...I meant nothing by it...It's just..." With a heavy sigh, Vergil leaned back in Horace's arms and closed his eyes.

"It's all right. Second to Calliope is enough for anyone. Vergilius," Horace said when he did not answer, "how long have you been awake?"

"Since before dawn. But I've only had a little sleep. I've been reading." When Virgil got hold of an idea, he was like a Carthaginian elephant -- he would charge directly towards it and let nothing stand in his way. Horace had known him to forgo food, drink, and sleep in favor of writing. In someone else this might be harmless, if overzealous, behavior; Vergil was never entirely healthy under the best of circumstances, and his habit of working himself to exhaustion tended to send him into fevers. Awful fevers, too, where he trembled and spat blood and fell in and out of delirium...Horace and Maecenas had spent many a sleepless night waiting on Vergil with cold water and medicines until his fever finally broke.

"Is it that thrice-cursed epic that you're killing yourself over?" Horace asked.

"Yes, and don't swear about it." He gestured at the mountains of scrolls. "I've been...reviewing mythology. Taking notes."

"I'll curse at it if I want to. It's been making you melancholy and driving you mad by turns. What are you writing on?"

"The founding of Rome."

Augustus's idea, Horace thought. Of course. "Romulus and the Sabine Kings?"

"Aeneas."

Horace shook his head. "That old story? There's hardly anything to it."

"There is if you look. I'll have to invent a little. He escaped from the wreckage of Troy, see, with his son Iulus --" Vergil reached for a scroll, but was suddenly wracked with a fit of coughing; Horace steadied him until the fit had passed.

"Well, if any of us has an epic temperament, it's you. You're our serious poet," he said. Vergil shook his head.

"That's just it...I...Quintus, I c-c-can't do this!" he burst out suddenly, burying his face in his hands. "I can't write this. It's so...it's so..." Vergil stumbled over his words, until he finally seemed to come to the right one, "so...difficult!"

Vergil was always complaining about his work -- his ear for meter was poor, or his phrasing was stilted, or the thing simply wasn't ready yet (poems were rarely ready enough for Vergil). Never, once, had Horace ever heard Vergil complain of difficulty.

"Publius," he said quietly, "don't you want to write it?"

"Epic is the highest aspiration a poet can have."

"Yes, but that doesn't --"

"I owe it to Caesar and Maecenas." Maecenas, of course, had made Augustus and Vergil friends, and had showered Vergil -- as he did all of his poets -- with gifts nd money so that he wanted for nothing. Augustus had been gracious with Vergil, treating him with nothing less than respect and giving back the land he had lost in the proscriptions. Of course, it had been Caesar who had taken the land away in the first place. Nevertheless, Vergil had always held Augustus in the highest regard -- his true nature was merciful, Vergil maintained, and his cruelties had been the result of the wars. It was a peculiarity of Vergil's to always assume the best of anyone.

"You are dodging my question," Horace said. "I didn't ask if you owed anything to the nobles. I asked if you wanted to write it."

Vergil sighed, and closed his eyes. "I want to write an epic. I want to make Rome and Augustus immortal, if I could presume to. But I can't...I c-c-can't justify this...this monarchy."

"I thought you trusted Caesar."

"I do. It's his successors I worry about. Three, four generations from now, who's to say?"

"Then let Augustus and Marcellus and all their glorious descendants go hang!" Horace said, so suddenly it made Vergil jump. "There might not even be a princeps to worry about. Augustus is fond of saying how he'll hand the power back to the Consuls eventually."

"Perhaps." Vergil toyed idly with his stylus. "I am rather inclined to think not. Caesar wouldn't leave Rome to be carved up by politicians again."

Horace laughed. "It really is just like you to worry about things that may or may not happen generations after you're dead. Write your epic, if that's what you want, celebrate Caesar if you must, and forget about the future. Besides...I'd bet you a copper your poem will outlast any number of worrisome kings."

Vergil turned in Horace's arms until they were face to face. "Why so little?" he said, with a peculiar sort of half-smile that usually indicated he was amused in spite of his best efforts to the contrary.

"Because I know I'd lose and have to pay you."

Vergil was very quiet for a long moment, staring thoughtfully into the middle distance. "...were you really going to sleep on my doorstep?" Vergil asked, suddenly changing the subject. Horace blinked; philosophy was one of the few things that Vergil could stand arguing about and the conversation seemed to have been skirting the edge of one of their common disagreements. Perhaps that meant that Vergil had, for once, been convinced. Or perhaps the argument was merely destined to resurface some other time. At any rate, Horace was only to glad to drop the matter for now.

"Honestly? Probably not. I tried that once, when I was fifteen and it sounded like a good idea. It was dreadfully cold and wet, I didn't sleep a wink, and people stared. The girl in question never spoke to me again. All in all, not a rousing victory. Of course, threatening to do it is fairly effective. I was rather hoping, though," Horace continued, and was honestly surprised to hear himself say it, "that I would be staying until morning anyway."

Vergil blushed bright red, like a maiden in a bad love poem. He started to say something, but didn't get very far -- tongue-tied, as usual. That, Horace mused, was the thing about Vergil...he possessed a peculiar combination of god-given talent and human frailty that cried out to be protected. Finding Vergil in Rome, wrecked by civil war, was rather like finding an unexpected wildflower had taken root in a field of barren rocks -- absolutely out of place, in a way, but somehow better for it.

"Y-y-you are a very foolish person," Vergil finally managed.

"You know what I always say," Horace whispered, a moment before their lips met, "about foolishness."


End file.
